


Forensic Investigation (of the Heart)

by shmickeyshmilkovich (NoirRock)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Accountant AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Family, Forensic Accountant AU, Forensics, Gay, Gay Sex, Gen, Intern, Mr. Milkovich, Multi, Other, Relationship(s), Self-Defense Instructor, Special Agent AU, Special Agent Gallagher, special agent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirRock/pseuds/shmickeyshmilkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is a highly respected forensic accountant. The new insufficient funds case on his desk has links to the Army, and a military litigation team comes in to advise. Mickey has no idea what he's getting into when he meets Special Agent Ian C. Gallagher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Milkovich and Special Agent Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott Michaels turned the hallway’s corner quickly, nearly smashing face-first into the large wood-and-metal door in front of him as he stopped. He forgot that Mr. Milkovich always kept his door shut, while most of the other accountants on the 31st floor had their doors open. Mr. Milkovich was different from any other accountant that Scott had ever met.

Scott Michaels turned the hallway’s corner quickly, nearly smashing face-first into the large wood-and-metal door in front of him as he stopped. He forgot that Mr. Milkovich always kept his door shut, while most of the other accountants on the 31st floor had their doors open. Mr. Milkovich was different from any other accountant that Scott had ever met. He could hear the hints of heavy metal music pouring out through the door, indicating that Mr. Milkovich was in his zone. Scott nervously (as if he had any other mode of functioning) rapped his fist on the door, hoping he had made enough noise to be noticed. Fortunately he had. The music was turned down and a muffled, “Yeah?” came from behind the door. Scott took a deep breath and opened the door, leaning into the frame.

“Mr. Milkovich, I—,” Scott shut his mouth as the accountant spun around in his chair. Mr. Milkovich sighed heavily and rubbed at his temple.

“It’s _Mickey_ , intern. How many times do I have to tell you to quit callin’ me Mr. Milkovich?” he asked. Scott blushed, looking down at the floor before quickly pulling his eyes back up to look at Mickey. 

“Sorry. Mickey. Miss Shepley wanted me to confirm that you received all of the files for the upcoming insufficient funds case.” Mickey nodded, pointing back towards his computer screen. 

“Working on it right now,” he said, and Scott opened his mouth before quickly snapping it shut, making a small whimpering noise in his throat. Mickey sighed and licked his lips and he could feel a familiar and diminutive hint of annoyance biting at the back of his brain as he asked, _“What?”_ Scott stuttered for a moment, a series of vowels. Eventually words came to him, telling Mickey, “It’s just that… Miss Shepley said she didn’t want anyone looking at the documents just yet.” 

Mickey rubbed his chin, staring at Scott blankly, turning his chair back and forth just slightly, waiting for a further explanation from the intern.

“She wants to wait until the military litigation advisors are here,” Scott said, waiting anxiously, perched against the doorframe, eyes expectant and hopeful. Scott was a bit like an overeager puppy, constantly in search of approval and attention. Mickey sighed and muttered, “Fuck.” He had already gotten deep into his concentration zone, heavy metal blasting, coffee mug in reach. His eyes scanned over various documents on his computer screen: expense reports, credit card histories, bank statements, receipt and check copies, handwriting analyses. He made mental notes as he went, marking off which documents needed further examination. He mostly ignored the military jargon spread throughout, thinking he could look the stuff up later. 

Now not only had Scott interrupted his work, but he had to stop what he was doing completely and wait for some military assholes to come into his office and tell him what to do. As Mickey had told Scott the day the kid had started his internship, while he was unorthodox, Mickey never half-assed anything, and so he expected the same from the intern. This was what made him one of the best forensic accountants in the city, and possibly the state. 

Having his concentration broken was not something that made Mickey Milkovich happy. But Juliette Shepley was his boss, and what Juliette said went. He waved Scott away, turning back to his computer and closing several windows on his screen, leaving open only his email. Turning back to the younger man, Mickey raised his eyebrows and nodded, licking his lips. 

“Okay. Done. Closed.”

Scott nodded, eyes moving back and forth between Mickey’s face and the computer screen behind him. He turned to leave the accountant’s office but the door opened up again moments later, and Mickey spun back around at the sound of it. Scott stood in the doorway, and with a small scowl he snapped, “And my name isn’t _intern_. It’s Scott.” The door slammed shut, leaving Mickey staring at it. He chuckled, shook his head and turned back to his desk, happy to see the kid standing up for himself for once.

* * *

It seemed like ages since Ian Gallagher had last set foot in Chicago. It always felt that way, ever since he first came back from basic training. It would always be home, sure, but each time he returned, the place felt different somehow. It wasn’t just that things looked different, with storefronts changing, buildings in varying stages of construction, and people growing up and growing older. It was the atmosphere, the vibe of the place. Things had changed, but it was the people changing that Ian felt was much more significant. Memories were made that he hadn’t been a part of, and there were always so many stories of major and minor events that he had to be caught up on. The one thing that never changed was the feeling he got entering the Gallagher household, that old familiar blue façade. It was the feeling of family. More importantly, _his_ family. The crazy Gallaghers. _His_ crazy Gallaghers. 

Ian had left for basic training at eighteen years old. He and a mass of others were shipped off to St. Robert, Missouri to be trained at Fort Leonard Wood. After a brief visit back home, he completed his advanced individual training in military intelligence school at Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista, Arizona. He worked for three years as a human intelligence collector at Joint Base Lewis-McChord in Fort Lewis, Washington before being offered a job in the Field Investigative Unit of the Army Criminal Investigation Command, relocating to Quantico, Virginia. At the age of twenty-two, he became Special Agent Ian C. Gallagher. 

And now he was back again, and not just for a few days or a holiday. In fact, Ian had no idea just how long he would be staying in Illinois this time around. As part of his job at the CID, Ian was often assigned to litigation advisory teams that were sent off to different law firms around the country. They helped out with cases that weren’t courts-martial but had heavy elements of military involvement anyway. This time, Ian had been assigned to a team that was heading right back to his home in Chicago. He hadn’t been home for a few months now, not since his younger sister Debbie’s college graduation, and just knowing he would be back for longer than two or three days made the job seem less like a job and more like an extended vacation. 

One element of that never-changing family warmth he loved so much was the look on his older sister Fiona’s face once he made himself known in the house. He usually never announced his visits prior to arriving, so when he walked in the door Fiona lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. She ran towards Ian, grabbing him and pulling him into a giant hug, squeaking, “Oh my god! You’re here!” She pulled away from him, still holding onto his shoulders and stared at him, scanning his form to determine that he was not a robot or a pod person. She couldn’t believe he was standing in front of her. It went the same way every time.

“What are you doin’ here?” Fiona asked, grinning up at Ian. She slapped his arm playfully and he followed her into the kitchen, sitting in one of the chairs that faced the stove. He watched her making dinner, as she usually was whenever he came back home, her hands always busy. 

“I’m actually here on assignment,” Ian informed her, nodding and taking off his jacket. She was still grinning, looking up at him briefly as she poured pasta sauce over a big pan of noodles, cheese, and meat.

“Here? In Chicago?” she asked. He nodded again and Fiona squeaked happily. “For how long?” Ian chuckled at her enthusiasm and stood, going to the fridge to grab a beer. He returned to his spot, cracking open the drink with a bottle opener that Fiona had already placed on the countertop. He shrugged, taking a gulp. 

“Not really sure,” he replied. “But it’ll probably be for a while. Definitely more than a week.” Fiona jumped up onto her toes and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Ian’s neck and holding onto him tightly. Ian laughed, placing one arm around his sister.

“I’m so glad!” she chirped, and then went back to preparing the pan in front of her. “It’ll be great having you around more often. I’ve missed you, ya know!” It was Ian’s turn to grin. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he said softly. Taking a sip of beer, he looked around. It was oddly quiet. Of course, nowadays it wasn’t nearly as busy as it used to be when he was younger. It had been eight years since Ian left to join the Army, and since then the number of residents in the house had shrunk. His older brother Lip (short for Phillip) had moved out shortly after he was finished with college, heading for New York City. Debbie was still around, but she was constantly busy, whether with her social life or with trying to find a job. His younger brother Carl still lived at home as well, and the youngest Gallagher, Liam was only thirteen, having one year left before he hit high school. The house still had visitors and in and out of there all the time, but the chaos level had gone down considerably over the past few years.

“Where is everybody?” Ian asked. Fiona looked around, trying to remember exactly where the members of her family had gone off to. She shoved the tray of lasagna into the oven and stood back up, leaning her elbows on the counter. 

“Ummm… Liam’s two doors down at Kev and V’s. Debbie’s out with some friends. Carl is… well, Carl might actually be home.” Fiona rested her chin in her hands, swaying back and forth. “I think he’s turned into a ninja. I never know when he enters or leaves a room. But he’s got a girlfriend, did I tell you?!” Fiona kept talking, catching Ian up on everything he’d missed. It wasn’t long before Debbie came in through the back door.

Fiona and Ian were setting the table for dinner and Debbie stopped short, staring at her brother. After a moment, she let out a high-pitched shriek and bolted towards him, wrapping her arms around his middle. She squeezed him firmly, with Ian hugging her back just as hard.

“Ian, you’re here!” Debbie exclaimed, pulling away from the long hug. She whipped around to look at Fiona. “Did you know he was going to be here?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. Fiona’s hands went up in defense, shaking her head. 

“I had no idea. Ian just likes to surprise us, apparently.” She clutched a plate to her chest and stared at her two red-headed siblings, adoring and proud. The three of them finished setting the table, and Fiona sent Debbie over to Kev and Veronica’s to fetch Liam. Not long after Liam took his turn attacking his older brother with a hug, Carl came down the stairs, stopping dead at the sight of Ian at the table. 

“Whoa… Ian’s here,” he said, and made his way down the rest of the descent of stairs. A young blonde girl followed him soon after, sitting down beside him. Ian stood up, grabbing Carl beneath the arms and lifting him up out of his chair. Carl attempted to fight back, waving his arms around above his head, searching for find a body part to hit. Laughter came from everyone around the table, even the girl sitting next to Carl. 

“Introduce me to your girlfriend, jackass!” Ian teased, putting Carl back down. Carl hit Ian in the ribs, smirking. He nodded towards his older brother.

“Heidi, this is my brother, Ian. Ian, this is Heidi,” Carl said, and Heidi shook Ian’s hand. 

“It’s great to meet you, Ian. You don’t _look_ like you’re in the Army,” Heidi joked, and Ian laughed, ruffling Carl’s hair. 

“No, I told you, he’s a Special Agent now,” Carl replied, swatting at Ian’s hand. Fiona rushed over with the pan of lasagna, placing it in the middle of the table. 

“Okay, eat up!” she announced, and the scrambling for food began. Once Ian got his share of lasagna slathered onto a plate, he sat back, watching his family members talk, laugh, and eat. Yep, he was home.

* * *

Mickey was a South Sider, born and raised. He didn’t drive to his job; instead, he took the L. He put a hoodie on over his business attire as soon as he stepped outside of the office building, pulling the hood up as he walked. He was cautious, keeping his eyes either straight ahead or down at the ground, headphones in his ears, trying to block the people around him from bothering him. He kept up this behavior until he reached his apartment.

Except Mickey didn’t live on the South Side anymore. He’d moved out of his father’s house a while ago, no longer under the man’s tyrannical thumb. Terry Milkovich had kicked it seven years ago, murdered in prison. The year before that, Mickey had received his GED at the insistence of his younger sister Mandy. The two of them moved out soon after the funeral, using money they’d been saving for years to rent an apartment on the West Side, in Wicker Park. The town was a bit too cheerful and yuppie, but it was better than the South Side. Almost everywhere was better than Back of the Yards. 

Not long after moving, Mickey started at Chicago State University and graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in accounting, then quickly got certified in Financial Forensics and as a Public Accountant, Forensic Accountant, and Fraud Examiner. He had a reputation that preceded him by leaps and bounds, with his professors and fellow students always highly impressed and surprised at Mickey’s level of skill. Of course most of them were unaware that the types of crimes he would be investigating were the same ones that he and his family had been committing for years—without being caught. He knew these scams back and forth, upside down and inside out. He had been doing the same ones himself since he was five. 

With the adamant and enthusiastic recommendation of his professors and several other accountants, he very quickly got a job at a large consulting firm, one of the biggest in the world. He quit his job at the pizza place around the corner and got rid of the rest of the weed he’d been selling on the side. Before he could even process what was happening, Mickey Milkovich was a forensic accountant. Fucked for life no more. But still, he acted like a South Sider.

His younger sister Mandy was now teaching self-defense classes all over Illinois and into parts of Michigan as well. She’d taken courses in business management, public speaking, marketing, entrepreneurship, and of course martial arts. She’d done work at universities, high schools, gyms, community centers—business was fantastic for Mandy, and she loved what she was doing. She too was no longer fucked for life, but still acted like a South Sider. But when the two of them got back home to their apartment, their shared space, it was like coming back down to reality. 

Mickey unlocked the door, letting himself into the apartment. He was about to drop his keys in the bowl by the door when a pillow hit him in the face. He grabbed the pillow as it went to fall at his feet, glaring in the direction of his sister. She was perched on the couch, feet curled underneath her, a scowl on her face. Mickey threw the pillow back at Mandy.

“The fuck is your problem?” he asked, going over to the couch and sitting beside her, taking off his messenger bag and letting it plop to the floor. Mandy hit his arm with the pillow again.

“You ate all the Oreos and there’s no more Chinese food left,” Mandy accused. Mickey stared at her for a moment before shoving her shoulder gently and groaning. He stood, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

“You know, you could just politely ask me about dinner instead of throwing shit and yelling at me,” he sighed. He opened up his contacts list and looked at his sister again, who was smiling smugly up at him.

“That’s no fun!” she exclaimed, and Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“What do you want for takeout, douchebag?” he asked, and Mandy sat up, clapping her hands together. 

“Papajin sounds good, doesn’t it, fuckface?” she replied, and Mickey nodded. 

“Papajin it is,” he muttered as he pressed ‘dial’ and put the phone to his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Angela (brightbulbs) for helping me along with some of my ideas and encouraging me! Also, anyone can feel free to correct me on some errors (since I don't know much about forensic accounting or the CID). Third note-- Papajin is a Chinese/Japanese restaurant in Wicker Park, Chicago, IL.


	2. Welcome to the (Mathematical) Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, people, listen up!” Juliette called from the front of the room, clapping a few times to grab everyone’s attention. “I know it’s early, and I know getting here at such an abnormal hour was a struggle for some of you—hi, Mickey, how are you doing?” At the front of the room, Juliette smirked good-naturedly at her grumpiest accountant as he raised his travel mug and grunted in response. Others around the table chuckled, knowing full well how Mickey responded to mornings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peoples! Thank you to everyone who is enjoying this so far, I'm having a lot of fun with it. Just a warning for the future: updates are most likely going to be pretty slow, as I am a college student and finals are nearing ever closer. (EEK!) I have a lot of paper writing to do, so updates will happen whenever they can! THANK YOU!!

An 8:30 AM meeting. 8:30 in the fucking morning. Mickey usually got to work around nine, half of his “Fuck Off” travel mug drained of coffee, grunting monosyllabic responses to his coworkers’ greetings as he passed them on the way to his office, not yet functioning as a human being. Usually, at 8:30 in the goddamn morning, Mickey was sitting on the L, head tipped back against the seat, headphones in, half asleep. But this time, oh no, this particular day he had a fucking 8:30 fucking AM fucking meeting. All because of this goddamn military litigation advisory team. Stupid fucking uppity military prick lawyers coming into _his_ office, telling _him_ what to do. As if he couldn’t do his fucking job, as if he wasn’t fucking great at it. Jackasses were probably only going to get in the way and fuck shit up. 

And it was their fault that he had a meeting at 8:30 in the morning. _Fuck these military douchebags_ , Mickey thought as he stalked out of the elevator and down the hallway to the conference room. He plopped himself down into a chair at the back of the room, dropping his messenger bag to the floor and setting his mug down hard onto the long, dark table in front of him. He pouted angrily, staring at his mug. Carson Malone, another accountant at Tolensky, Landis, & Hodges Consulting Agency, was sitting beside him, briefcase set perfectly straight in front of him on the table. Carson reached over and brushed a bit of dust off of his briefcase before turning his head toward Mickey. 

“Good morning, Milkovich,” Carson uttered. “You look… chipper.” Mickey’s eyes moved slowly to meet Carson’s. The other man gave him a small smile and Mickey moved his mug from its place in front of him to on top of Carson’s briefcase. 

“Read. The. Mug,” Mickey growled. Carson stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. He was about to speak when Juliette, their boss, walked into the room. Her heels clipped against the floor, demanding attention. The thing about Juliette was that she seemed to know her employees just as well as she knew the alphabet. Their quirks and personalities were saved in a memory bank in her brain, and she had adapted to all of them. She knew just how to treat her employees, how to talk to each of them. She ran a tight ship, and no one was complaining. 

“Now, now, boys. Play nice,” she teased, placing two pitchers of water at the center of the table. “Carson, you know it’s too early for Mickey. And Mickey, drink more coffee. It’ll do everyone some good.”

She left the room again and Mickey swiped his coffee mug back, taking a long drink from it. He sat back in his chair, shutting his eyes to try and ignore the rest of the world. Before long, the room was filled with accountants. Up at the other end of the table were Juliette and her assistant, Emily Browningstone. Emily was young and full of energy, much like Scott. When the two of them worked together, they got along quite well. 

The center of the table was now decked out in water glasses, plates, napkins, and a platter of various pastries and baked goods. Mickey sat up and reached across the table, grabbing a plate full of donuts and Danishes. He sat back, chomping on a raspberry Danish and checking his phone for the time. 8:20 AM. Another ten minutes to kill. Mickey pulled up the Fruit Ninja app on his phone, but before he could get very far into the game, Juliette rushed out of the conference room and came back with two men and a woman, all dressed in business suits, similar to the accountants around the table. Mickey locked his phone and put it back in his pocket, sitting up and popping the last of a Danish into his mouth. 

He observed the newcomers one by one, taking them in. The lone female agent was short, with brown hair and dark eyes, and she wore a serious, stolid expression on her face. The first male agent was extremely tall, with a dark blond buzzcut. He was older than Mickey for sure, but younger than the female agent. She was probably the superior. Mickey’s eyes moved to the second man and he sat up quickly, grabbing his coffee mug and putting it to his lips before his jaw could drop. He took a long sip, letting the warmth layer over his tongue before he gulped it down. This guy was _hot_. He wasn’t nearly as tall as the other guy, but still a good bit taller than Mickey, with red hair that was buzzed down on either side and longer on the top, smoothly slicked back. He was the only one of the three agents to smile as they filed into the room. Smile aside, this one was the pretty boy, which meant that he was bound to be the douchiest of them all. Which was too fucking bad for Mickey, cause he would have liked to put the redhead’s mouth to work—if the guy was even gay, which he probably wasn’t. 

“Alright, people, listen up!” Juliette called from the front of the room, clapping a few times to grab everyone’s attention. “I know it’s early, and I know getting here at such an abnormal hour was a struggle for some of you—hi, Mickey, how are you doing?” 

At the front of the room, Juliette smirked good-naturedly at her grumpiest accountant as he raised his travel mug and grunted in response. Others around the table chuckled, knowing full well how Mickey responded to mornings. Juliette let the head agent take over with the introductions, and the stern-faced woman replaced her at the head of the table. 

“Good morning,” she said, speaking calmly and evenly, “My name is Special Agent Kira Wexler of the United States Army Criminal Investigation Command. Behind me are Agents Luke Osbourne and Ian Gallagher…” She gestured to her fellow military douchebags as she spoke, and the redhead smiled again at the sound of his name, almost an automatic response. So his name was Ian Gallagher…

* * *

Kira had been on a roll since they stepped out of the car and into the echoing emptiness of the parking garage. During the ride from the hotel to the massive building on North Wabash Avenue, she had been singing along with the radio, shouting out Britney Spears and Bruno Mars lyrics with a mouthful of Egg McMuffin. But as soon as the car shut off and their feet hit the concrete, fun-Kira turned into Army-Kira. This version of Kira reminded Ian of a statue—permanently, perfectly stoic and stationary. The transformation was really unbelievable.

As soon as she had switched on Army-mode, Kira began another briefing, not bothering to look back at either Luke or Ian. She was a firm believer in the frequent repetition of briefings. 

“Okay, who are we dealing with here?” she began.

“TLH Consulting Agency of Chicago, Illinois. Branch of the much larger TLH International,” Luke replied.

“Supervising director?”

“Juliette Shepley, age forty-three, African American, unmarried, no children. In position at TLH Chicago for the past six years. Specializes in insurance recovery, damage analysis, and corporate investigation,” Ian swiftly stated.

“And what’s their case?”

“Insufficient funds.” Luke’s response.

“In the early 2000s, a former supply depot just outside of Chicago was converted into a support center for any and all Army personnel in the area,” Ian said, expanding upon Luke’s extremely simplified summary.

“The place was supposed to be shut down during the 2010s due to dwindling personnel population and a decreasing need for support services.” Luke.

“The center’s closing took much longer than the estimated time period given, based on calculations made by Materiel Command—” Ian.

“Who sent a representative to the base to oversee and eventually take control of the operation. Said representative was Major Victor Ellsworth—”

“Ellsworth decided to take it upon himself to reorganize the base’s budget without any supervision or review by any superior or subordinate officers.”

“While the closing of the base picked up speed, there were decisions that produced questionable consequences—”

“Staff were getting fired, then rehired—”

“New positions were being created—”

Kira stopped dead and spun around to face them. The two men stumbled forward slightly, towering over her. The woman wasn’t over five-three, and her male partners were gigantic compared to her. Ian had to be five-eleven at the least, and Luke was over six-three. They looked the odd group, but it was obvious which one of them held the most authority, for when Kira walked into a room, her voice and body didn’t just radiate confidence and command—she was practically a nuclear power plant full of the stuff. She threw her hands up in front of her, halting the men. 

“Osbourne! Gallagher!” she barked. Luke and Ian stared at her. She took a deep breath, staring back. “I get it. You know the case. Enough with the pissing contest.” 

All three special agents entered the elevator and Kira pressed the button for floor 31.

* * *

Ian hated this part. Introductions were so boring. He pretty much had Kira’s entire opening speech memorized, and it sometimes took a great amount of restraint for him to not mouth the words along with her. The agents were led into a conference room, and suddenly they were surrounded by accountants. Miss Juliette Shepley was at least funny—she was at ease with everyone around her, Army or otherwise. She wore a different kind of confidence than Kira, but her presence was just as powerful.

“Alright, people, listen up!” Juliette called from the front of the room, clapping a few times to grab everyone’s attention. “I know it’s early, and I know getting here at such an abnormal hour was a struggle for some of you—hi, Mickey, how are you doing?” 

Movement came from the back of the room—a tired looking, dark-haired man raised his hand in response, fingers holding tight to a portable coffee cup which had the words **“FUCK OFF”** emblazoned on its body. Ian bit his lip, holding himself back from breaking into laughter. All he could think of was his older sister’s sleep mask that said the same exact thing. 

_Mickey_ , Ian thought, repeating the man’s name in his head. _Mickey_. He took another look at the accountant, who was now pivoting left to right and back again on his chair, coffee mug at his lips. The man had startlingly blue eyes with a haircut similar to Ian’s. He eyed the rest of the accountant, examining him up and down. Ian’s consensus: very fucking attractive. He’d have to keep his eye on this one.


	3. Mathematical Self-Cock Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You—you do all that math in your head?” he asked, astonished. Mickey couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth form a small smile. Big, bad Special Agent couldn’t handle a little mental math? It was amusing to see the shocked expression on Gallagher’s face when he was usually so well put-together. Mickey nodded slowly, still smirking. “Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows. Ian shook his head, still in awe.

It had been barely a week since the Army Assholes had arrived and surprisingly, Mickey didn’t have the strong urge to go full Milkovich on them yet. They mostly stayed out of his way, only coming into his office a few times to ask questions, clarify answers, or check on his progress. They were brief visits—professional and straightforward. It was just the way Mickey wanted it; minimal interaction meant minimal frustration. But every time Ian Gallagher walked into his office, the air in the room changed. Mickey’s shoulders tightened, jaw tensed, mouth went dry, stomach tied itself into knots. But Mickey kept cool, because that was what Mickey did. He showed no emotional mercy, never let his anxieties bubble up to the surface. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about the special agent that made him so nervous, but whenever he walked into Mickey’s usually sacred sanctum, the accountant’s heartbeat sped up. He tried his best to swallow it down, keep it invisible. But _damn_ , the man was hot. Slim fit suits and oxford shirts never looked so good. 

Mickey was busy looking through stacks and stacks of receipt copies one day when Ian knocked on his office door. Not bothering to wait for a response, he pushed the door open, holding it there with his foot and standing with his shoulder leaned against the frame. Mickey looked over at him for a second before returning to the receipts. 

“What?” he asked, voice low with annoyance. It was happening again— that tense, awkward, claustrophobic feeling in Mickey’s chest. He tried to take a deep breath, only managing half of one before he let the air out in a frustrated sigh. Ian let the door shut behind him as he walked further into the office. He slowly approached Mickey on his left side, tapping his fingers on the top of the desk. He did a small twist, turning so that his back was to the wall. He sat halfway off the desk, head bowed as he watched Mickey work. It was then that he noticed Mickey’s hands.

He stared for a long moment at the accountant’s knuckles before asking, “’Fuck u-up’ physically or financially?” He nodded toward Mickey’s tattoos and smiled. Mickey curled one of his hands into a fist and reached to the right of his computer screen, grabbing a miniature Snickers bar out of a small bowl that was filled with candy. He unwrapped the Snickers and popped it into his mouth. When he was especially nervous or stressed out, Mickey ate candy like his brothers’ used to pop pills. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at Gallagher as he chewed. He didn’t speak again until after he’d swallowed the bite-size chocolate bar.

“Both,” he answered, and then he turned back to his work. As he flipped over one page of receipts, he willed Gallagher to go away, chewing on his lip. Still, the redhead stayed. Mickey looked back up at him. 

“Can I fucking help you?” he asked, obviously irritated. Ian smiled and tapped the large stack of paper in front of Mickey.

“What’s all this?” he asked, still smiling at Mickey. The accountant’s eyes flicked down to the papers and he sighed. 

“Paper…” Mickey deadpanned, and Ian smiled wider. He laughed softly and shook his head. 

“No, I mean, what are you doing with it? How do these papers apply to the case?”

Mickey sighed and turned his chair more towards Gallagher. Two stacks of receipt copies sat on the desk, one pile showing the receipt information, the other pile showing the blank back of the sheet. A yellow legal pad was next to the blank pile, and Mickey took the top sheet from that pile and dragged the legal pad over towards where Ian was sitting. He flipped over the sheet so that the receipts were facing up again. He tapped one of the receipts with the end of his pen.

“I’m taking each receipt and looking at the items or services purchased—,”

“Services?” Ian asked, interrupting the accountant. Mickey gritted his teeth and looked up at him.

“Yeah. Like auto repair or a visit to the doctor…” Ian nodded attentively, then looked back down at the paper.

“Go on.”

“So I look at what was purchased and I put them into categories.”

“Is that why they’re highlighted in different colors?”

“Yeah. So then I take the total of each receipt and add them all together and write that total down over here.” Mickey pointed to the yellow pad. Ian looked at the numbers scrawled there and he frowned. 

“Where’s all the math?” he asked, eyes flickering back to Mickey. The accountant looked right back at him. _His eyes are really, really green_ , he thought, and before he could think anymore about those eyes, he looked back down to the numbers. 

“What do you mean?” Mickey asked. Ian pointed to the pad of paper.

“Those are just totals, right? Where’d you get the totals from? I don’t see a calculator.”

“Oh. I do ‘em in my head,” Mickey said with a nod. Ian’s jaw dropped.

“You—you do all that math _in your head_?” he asked, astonished. Mickey couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth form a small smile. Big, bad Special Agent couldn’t handle a little mental math? It was amusing to see the shocked expression on Gallagher’s face when he was usually so well put-together. Mickey nodded slowly, still smirking. 

“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly, raising his eyebrows. Ian shook his head, still in awe. Mickey tapped the legal pad with one end of his pen and asked if he could continue. Ian nodded then, his eyes returning to the numbers. They didn’t remain there for long. The more Mickey spoke, the more Ian stared at the accountant’s lips. He liked the way his tongue lingered on his teeth when saying words like ‘total’ or ‘percent’. He liked the enthusiasm with which Mickey spoke about the details of his job, the sound of mathematical terms falling away from his mouth and into the atmosphere.

“So, then I add up all the total numbers and mark that down. Then I figure out the percentage of the total that each type of purchase represents. From that, I can determine how much money went into certain areas of the budget. That way, I get a better picture of the bullshit this asshole pulled on your Army operation here.” Mickey turned back to his computer and opened up a new Excel file.

“Then I’ll open this up—you do know what Excel is, right?” he asked, looking over at Ian. The taller man gave him a strange look and crossed his arms. 

“I work in military intelligence… what do you think?” he asked, a smug smirk forming on his lips. Mickey clicked his tongue in response, rolling his eyes as he turned his head back to the computer screen. 

“Right. So, I’ll open this up and put in all the information, make a pie chart—,”

“I know what a pie chart is, by the way,” Ian chimed in. Mickey ignored the comment, clenched his jaw, and kept talking.

“—so that it’s more presentable and easier to understand when discussing the information.” Ian nodded, taking it all in. He sighed and stood, reaching over to pat the top of Mickey’s head twice. 

“Good work, Milkovich,” he said over his shoulder as he went toward the door. By the time Gallagher was out of his office, Mickey’s neck, ears, and cheeks were all red. Did Gallagher just seriously _pat his head_? He was furious, outraged, appalled… and yet curiously intrigued, and slightly pleased. He frowned, slicking his hair back into its proper position and grunting in disapproval at the event that had just taken place. He took one look at his bowl of candy and grabbed another bite-sized Snickers bar, unwrapping it quickly and shoving it in his mouth. He turned his chair back to the work in front of him, chewing hard while running numbers through his mind, trying not to think about Special Agent Ian Gallagher.

* * *

“I hope you know your little crush is obvious,” Luke mentioned as he sat down across from Ian, planting his tray of food down in front of him. Ian looked up, popping a French fry into his mouth and chewing slowly. He cocked his head to one side and drew his eyebrows together.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. Luke let out a loud laugh which echoed around the large cafeteria, holding his stomach with one hand.

“You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re fucking with me!” Luke replied. He shook his head and took a long swig from his water bottle. Raising one eyebrow at his younger colleague, he laughed again. “The dark-haired one? With the foul mouth?” Ian shrugged and twitched his eyebrows upward just a bit. 

“What about him?” he asked, taking a sip of his smoothie through a straw. Luke rolled his eyes and shoved some hamburger into his mouth as Kira slid in beside Ian, also carrying a tray of food. 

“Look at this,” she complained, pointing to her tray. “Look at this absolute _garbage_ that they _dare_ to call food here!” She scoffed, picking up a soggy French fry and tossing it further away from her. Looking up at the two men, she muttered, “Disgusting.” She picked up her veggie wrap and reluctantly chomped into it with a slight grimace. Luke gestured with his head towards Ian as he swallowed down hamburger.

“What do you think, Wexler?” he asked his superior officer, and Kira looked up at him, confused. 

“About what?” she asked, carefully opening her water bottle. Ian rolled his eyes this time, rubbing one of his temples. 

“Can you just drop it, please?” Ian groaned. Luke shook his head, pointing at Ian and then turning his finger to Kira. 

“Gallagher’s little crush,” he informed her. Kira’s eyes went wide and she cleared her throat, swallowing another bite of her wrap. Putting down her food and placing her hands in her lap, she straightened her back. 

“Well… I’ve been waiting for a good time to address this, and now that Luke is prepared to discuss it…” Kira began. Luke raised his hands up, stopping her. 

“Wait, what? Prepared to discuss what?” he asked. Ian snickered, biting his lip to prevent himself from breaking into full-on laughter. Kira looked back and forth between the two men’s faces and then raised her hands back to her water. 

“S-so we’re not talking about… well, we both know that Ian is a homosexual, and with the way you two… behave around each other sometimes, I just assumed you were… referring to that,” she said very slowly, twisting the cap off of the bottle. Ian wasn’t able to stop the laugh from getting out, not after that explanation. Luke’s eyes bugged out and he shook his head quickly, staring at Kira. 

“You thought Ian had a crush on me?!” he asked. Kira nodded, sipping her water, eyes pointed downward in embarrassment. Ian reached over to touch Luke’s hand, looking into the older man’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Luke—you too, Kira—but I have _no_ interest in you whatsoever,” he said, managing to keep himself from bursting into more fits of laughter. Luke put his hand on top of Ian’s and smirked, nodding. 

“I don’t have a crush on you either buddy,” he said, putting on a fake solemn tone. They looked at Kira, who was now concentrated on her wrap, blushing as much as her complexion would allow. Ian reached over to rub Kira’s back comfortingly. 

“It’s okay, Kira,” he told her, “I know Luke and I can be… overwhelmingly homoerotic at times.” Luke snorted a laugh and with a mouthful of hamburger, he commented, “Isn’t that the army in general?” Ian chuckled and nodded. 

“Good point,” he muttered as he took a bite of his chicken sandwich. Luke pointed at Kira again as he swallowed his food. 

“No, we were talking about Gallagher’s crush on the accountant… what’s his name? Malkovich?” he asked, looking to Ian.

“Milkovich,” both Kira and Ian corrected. Luke’s eyes lit up as he stared at Ian, crossing his arms. Ian flipped him off and rubbed the back of his neck, hoping that could hide the redness taking over his skin. Luke laughed again, just as loudly as before. Kira shook her head and sighed.

“Oh, Ian. Your crush is pretty… obvious,” she said, touching his shoulder lightly. Ian shook his head, sat up straight and took another bite of his sandwich. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe if you didn’t stare at him every time he enters or leaves a room…” Luke muttered and Ian kicked him beneath the table.

* * *

“He fucking _patted me_ on the _fucking head_ ,” Mickey spat out as he sat down at the small, round table in the teeny kitchen of his apartment. Mandy had pushed back the couch and the television in the living room and set up one of her sparring dummies, which she was currently kicking the shit out of. Mickey surely did not envy anyone who pissed Mandy off enough to warrant this kind of rage. 

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Mick,” she said in between high-powered kicks. Mickey sputtered out a few syllables of disbelief, his eyes growing wider. 

“Aren’t you always sayin’ that any type of unwanted touching is harmful?” he responded, quoting one of her many self-defense class speeches. Mandy delivered another blow to the dummy’s chest before turning back to Mickey. 

“Says the guy who used to beat people with a baseball bat for looking at him wrong,” she replied, crossing her arms. Mickey didn’t answer, just shoveled more spaghetti into his mouth. It was silence from the both of them for a while, except for Mandy’s grunts and heavy breathing as she practiced on the dummy. When she had finished, she sat down across from her older brother, guzzling down water. She gulped and sighed, stealing a long noodle from his plate.

“’Ey!” he protested, lifting his plate up over his head. “Watch it! Stealin’ my food, what’s wrong with you?”

“Carbs!” Mandy replied, standing and going to the stove to get her own plate of spaghetti. Mickey rolled his eyes and slurped up more noodles. Mandy sat back down at the table, stirring pepper flakes into her food.

“You know, Mickey, you should really start considering buying the gluten-free pasta I keep telling you about,” she suggested as she took her first bite. Mickey shrugged one shoulder as he finished off his dinner. He stood, going to the sink to rinse off his plate. 

“You’re the only one who would eat it, get it yourself,” he replied. 

“Dick.”

“Bitch.”

“So anyway,” Mandy said, “Isn’t the head-patting guy the same guy you were practically drooling over the other day?” Mickey put his plate in the dishwasher, turning to look at her as he shut the door.

“I wasn’t drooling,” he protested. Mandy let out a sarcastic laugh. 

“Tall, broad shoulders, slim-fit suits, green eyes. Drool, drool, drool, I’m Mickey, and I have a crush on the pretty Army man!” she teased, and Mickey crossed his arms, giving her a glare. 

“Fuck off,” was his only reply. Mandy laughed and pointed her fork at him. 

“You have a cru-ush!” she sang, smiling widely. Mickey flipped her off and went into his room to get his laptop, popping back into the kitchen and opening the computer. 

“Oh, fine, hide behind the computer! Sure!”Mandy teased, which got her the middle finger response again. Once she had finished her dinner, she stood, going up behind her brother and ruffling his hair. He spun around, standing to poke at her ribs, which got him a sharp elbow in the stomach. 

“Ah, Jesus!” he yelped, and she laughed.

“That’s what you get!” She clapped her hands together in triumph as Mickey held his stomach with one hand.

“You’re such a bitch!” he laughed and Mandy shoved his head with the back of her hand. 

“Oh, you’re fine. I didn’t even hit you that hard.” Mickey sighed, sitting back down at his computer, rubbing his abdomen. 

“What are you doing?” Mandy asked, going into the living room to put the furniture back to its usual spot. Mickey tapped on the trackpad a few times, staring at his computer screen. 

“Work stuff,” he muttered, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb, eyes still glued to the glow in front of him. Mandy stuck her tongue out at him as she moved the couch, but he paid no mind. Logging into his e-mail account, he saw an unfamiliar sender address with the subject title “Thanks”. That’s it, nothing else. Just “Thanks”. From ian.gallagher@mail.mil. Ian Gallagher. Mickey’s hand dropped from his chin to the keyboard, slamming on a few buttons. 

“Fuck!” he spat out. Mandy turned quickly, a little startled. 

“What? What is it? What happened?” she asked in quick succession. Mickey shook his head, still staring at the e-mail address. He tapped the e-mail open and read through it quickly, his hands shaking slightly. Mandy was getting impatient waiting for an explanation, so she stomped one foot to try and get his attention. 

“Mickey!” she snapped, and he looked up at her. He shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. “What is it?” Mandy asked, crossing her arms. 

“Nothin’. Just realized I forgot to do somethin’ at work,” he lied. He didn’t want Mandy on his ass about this, and he _really_ didn’t want Mandy to know that a simple e-mail from a colleague could make him react the way he did. She went back to rearranging the living room, and Mickey read the e-mail again.

**From: ian.gallagher@mail.mil  
To: mtmilkovich@tlh.com  
Subject: Thanks**

**Just wanted to say thanks for the lesson in receipts today. It was kind of fascinating to pick your brain and see how it works. See you tomorrow.**

**Special Agent Ian C. Gallagher  
United States Army Criminal Investigation Command  
Marine Corps Base Quantico  
Quantico, VA, 22134**

‘Lesson in receipts’? ‘Kind of fascinating’? ‘Pick your brain’? ‘See how it works’? ‘See you tomorrow’? What did this mean? Why did Gallagher e-mail him? What the fuck? Mickey ran one hand over his face, sighing heavily as he leaned back in his chair. He pictured Gallagher leaning against his desk earlier, eager to learn, smiling and asking questions and patting him on the goddamn head. What right did he think he had to be able to just reach over and put his giant hand on top of Mickey’s head? He did have really big hands, nice fingers, and a great smile. Gallagher’s lips in general were just great; Mickey wondered how they would feel pressed against his mouth, or wrapped around his cock. 

_Whoa, wait, what?! Stop!_ Mickey thought, sitting up and rubbing his eyes furiously. With that image in his head, he found his pants had gotten a little bit tighter, and he growled as he pulled at the cloth impatiently. He licked his lips, read the e-mail over again, and shut his laptop quickly. _Fuck this_ , he thought, huffing out a frustrated breath. He had had too weird of a day, and he was about ready to give it up. He put his computer under his arm and stood, nodding to his sister.

“Goin’ to bed,” he grumbled at her. Mandy looked up from her spot on the couch, frowning at him.

“You okay, Mick?” she asked, genuinely concerned. He nodded hurriedly, not wanting to talk about what was going through his head. 

“Yeah, just tired,” he said, yawning for effect. Mandy nodded back at him, chewing on her bottom lip like he so often did. 

“Okay,” she said, and Mickey went off to his bedroom. He shut the door and put the laptop down on his bed, before stripping down to his boxers, grabbing a towel, and heading for the bathroom. He took a quick (and rather cold) shower, doing mathematical equations in his head to avoid thinking about Gallagher. He brushed his teeth, went back to his bedroom, changed into a clean pair of boxers, and got underneath the covers. He plugged his phone into the charger in the wall and picked up his laptop again, opening it and logging on. 

There was that e-mail again, just where he’d left it. Mickey sighed, running his hand over his face. He’d wanted to maybe watch something on Netflix, relax a little bit. But the e-mail was staring him in the face again, and he was midway through re-reading it when he finally closed the window. He logged onto Netflix and got halfway through an episode of _Sons of Anarchy_ before he felt like he could no longer keep his eyes open. He shut his laptop, put it on the floor and turned off his bedside lamp, getting settled under the covers. He shut his eyes and did math problems in his head until he fell asleep, hoping to dream of Charlie Hunnam instead of Ian Gallagher.


	4. South Side No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t until the next day that his body would experience the strange and unique sensation of being both stressed out and relaxed at the same time, all because of Ian Gallagher. The awkward and anxious feeling from before had dissipated slightly, and Mickey found himself less jarred. That tiny amount of peace was broken following one of his afternoon smoke breaks.

The day after he gave Ian the lesson in receipts, Mickey was stuck on awkward mode. He was stressed on his way to work, sitting on the train with his legs bouncing, slurping down coffee. He was stressed during work, popping candy into his mouth in regular intervals and blasting heavy metal music to make sure people knew to keep out of his office. And he was stressed when he got home in the evening, trying his hardest not to think about Gallagher’s tall, sculpted body and wonderful laugh and green eyes. Which was difficult for him, as he had spent the day being in the vicinity of all of that. It was a day of heavy concentration and way too much coffee. Avoiding seeing or thinking about Gallagher was exhausting, and by the time Mickey got home, he was pretty much ready to hit the hay. He ordered a pizza, popped open a beer, absentmindedly stared at an episode of _Xena: Warrior Princess_ while lounging beside his sister, took a hot shower, and passed the fuck out. 

It wasn’t until the next day that his body would experience the strange and unique sensation of being both stressed out and relaxed at the same time, all because of Ian Gallagher. The awkward and anxious feeling from before had dissipated slightly, and Mickey found himself less jarred. That tiny amount of peace was broken following one of his afternoon smoke breaks. He was taking a closer look at an expense report when Scott the intern knocked on the door. Mickey gave the verbal go-ahead, and Scott shuffled into the office. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. After a moment of this Mickey finally gave in and turned toward the younger man, raising his eyebrows and waiting for Scott to speak. The intern was mid-sentence when Gallagher, tall and smirking, moseyed his way into the room, sliding his body smoothly in between the door and the frame. He stood near the door, back against the wall with his hands in his pockets, silent and watching. Mickey’s eyes flickered over to the redhead several times while Scott talked. He just stood there, mouth in that permanent state of amusement. Mickey picked up what the intern was trying to say, focusing his attention back to the nervous young man. 

“Yeah, thanks Scott. Appreciate you making those copies for me, man,” he said, and Scott handed off the stack of paper, smiling joyfully at the praise he received from the often-grumpy accountant. He turned to Ian, nodded politely and chirped, “Nice to see you again, Agent Gallagher,” before leaving the room. As soon as Scott had shut the door, Ian quickly returned to the same spot at Mickey’s desk he’d perched on two days earlier. His smirk grew into a wide smile, and Mickey knew if he looked up for too long at Gallagher’s stupid face, he’d be blushing in no time. So he grabbed a Tootsie Roll and pretended to be utterly absorbed in the copies Scott had just given him. He muttered a simple, “Yo,” and continued to flip through the pages in his lap. Ian watched him for a moment, tapping his fingers on the top of the desk. 

The accountant’s stress levels were already slowly rising, had been since Gallagher came into his office. “So,” Ian started, hoping to interrupt Mickey’s train of thought. When he didn’t look up, Ian kept talking.

“So, feel free to stop me if I’ve got the wrong idea here, but…” Ian stopped and inhaled quickly as Mickey looked up at him, brow furrowed, his eyes giving off an icy blue stare. 

“What?” Mickey asked, sounding more annoyed than he meant to. Ian let out the breath he’d been holding and tapped his fingers once more against the desk. He looked down, and then back up, licking his lips.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go out for a drink with me after work?” he asked. He knew it was a long shot that Mickey was into him, let alone anywhere near gay. But something propelled Ian forward, and he just had to ask him out. The accountant’s eyes widened and he leaned back in his chair, pushing it backwards just a bit. Before he could even think of how to respond, words were coming out of his mouth.

“You asking me out, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, folding his arms over his chest. Ian nodded briefly.

“Just a drink after work,” he added. “It’s no big deal.” He kept looking down at his fingers on the desk, then up to Mickey, then back down again. Mickey watched the special agent carefully, noticing the hint of nervousness. He looked the agent up and down, taking in the sight of him as if he were drinking a tall glass of beer. Easily as delicious, if not more so. Mickey shrugged and found Ian’s eyes again.

“Sure,” he replied. Just one syllable. Simple, casual, easy. Ian broke out into a grin and he sat up straight, eyes brightening. Looking at him, Mickey could almost see the faint image of an excited puppy. He thought that if Gallagher had a tail, it would be wagging right now. Mickey smiled and the two organized a plan: when five o’clock rolled around, Mickey would pack up and Ian would go get his rental car from the parking garage. He would pick Mickey up at the entrance and they would head to a bar in the West Loop called Cobra Lounge. Mickey had been there before; Ian had not.

As soon as Ian had left the office, Mickey felt it: that same claustrophobia and anxiety he experienced whenever Gallagher was around, and at the same time, a lightness, like a heavy weight was lifted from his shoulders. He had never felt both of these things at the same time, but there it was. The result of being asked out by Ian fucking Gallagher.

* * *

“Cobra Lounge, huh?” Ian asked as Mickey buckled his seatbelt. The brunet nodded and grunted in the affirmative. He had noticed the make and model of the rental car Gallagher was driving. It was fancy, sleek and silver, exactly the type of car that a Special Agent working for the government would drive. Despite the suit, the briefcase, and the shiny car, something about Gallagher didn’t fit into this picture-perfect persona. He seemed oddly out of place in his high-class surroundings. Chewing on his lip, Mickey wondered what element made the redhead just the slightest bit alienated. Ian stared at the accountant until he looked over, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” Mickey asked. Ian smirked and nodded toward the road ahead of them.

“I don’t know where I’m going. That means you have to navigate me,” Ian replied. Mickey felt the beginning of a blush creeping up his neck and he nodded, taking out a pack of cigarettes and plucking one of them out of the box. He placed the stick between his lips and pocketed the rest, pointing towards the windshield.

“Turn right on East Wacker Drive, up here,” he muttered, and then, “Mind if I smoke?” Ian pulled a breath in between his teeth, wincing slightly. 

“Usually I’d be okay with it, but, um…” he looked briefly over at Mickey. “Rental.” Mickey nodded, understanding, and replaced his cigarette into its pack. Ian made the first turn, and Mickey put his hands on his thighs, sighing and staring out at the Chicago streets. He shifted slightly and loosened the tie around his neck, relieved to not have to wear the damn thing anymore. He looked down at the tattoos gracing his fingers and cracked his knuckles self-consciously. The sound reminded Ian of a question he’d wanted to ask the accountant.

“So where does a high class accountant get tattoos like those?” he inquired, smirking again. Mickey laughed and rolled his eyes. 

“Family thing. My brothers and I have ‘em. I’ve got ‘fuck u-up’, and the other two have ‘beat down’ and ‘smak down’. It’s stupid, I was fourteen, we were stoned, I dunno…” Mickey’s voice drifted off. “Make a right up here, on West Randolph.”

“You local?” was Ian’s next question. He already knew the answer, could hear the Chicago accent in Mickey’s voice.

“Uh, yeah, sorta,” Mickey replied. “I’m South Side.” Ian looked at him for a second before letting out a short, loud laugh. 

“Seriously?” he asked, and laughed again. “Where at?” A confused look spread across Mickey’s face.

“Back of the Yards. You know it?” he asked slowly. Ian let out another barking laugh. 

“You’re kidding me, right? _I’m_ from Back of the Yards.” Mickey looked over at him, eyebrows raised in shock. 

“You’re serious?” he replied. Ian nodded and this time it was Mickey’s turn to laugh. “Special Agent Gallagher is a _South Sider?_ ” He laughed again. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Ian said. “Am I staying on West Randolph here?” He pointed toward a fork in the road. 

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey answered in the middle of a laugh. “Can’t believe you’re South Side. Just… the suit, and the job. Jesus.” 

“You’re an accountant at one of the best firms in the United States, and you’re wearing a suit too,” Ian remarked. Mickey looked down at his clothes and shrugged. 

“Okay, you’ve got me there.”

“Wait… Milkovich!” Ian exclaimed.”You’re a Milkovich brother! You were in the same grade as my older brother, Lip!”

“Lip is your brother? You’re Frank Gallagher’s kid?”

“Technically, yeah. Our older sister raised us. Parents really didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, I remember her. Fiona. God, you’ve got a big family.”

“Well so do you. All those brothers. And you have a sister, right?”

“Yeah, Mandy. Me and her moved into an apartment in Wicker Park. No longer South Side.” The rest of the short ride to the bar consisted of the two men reminiscing about their old hood. When they got there, Ian parked his fancy rental car and they went inside. The place was sort of like the Hard Rock Café, without any of the gimmicky franchise bullshit. It served as a bar, restaurant, and venue, and was actually a really laid-back place. Mickey figured it was casual and inconspicuous enough for ‘just drinks’ after work. He found them two seats at the bar, opting out of one of the more intimate booths. He was definitely not ready to be in that enclosed of a space with Gallagher. Even being in the car with him had been nerve-wracking, up until the moment they realized their South Side connection. He found out that Ian had worked at the Kash and Grab, where Mickey used to shoplift when things got really bad at home or his father was in prison and the kids had to fend for themselves. Ian learned that Mickey and he were on the same Little League team when he was eight and Mickey was nine. Ian’s older brother was in the same grade as Mickey, and Mickey’s younger sister was in the same grade as Ian. They had the opportunity to cross each other’s path so many times in childhood, but it just never happened.

They sat down and both ordered beers. Mickey was nervous, leg bouncing on the edge of his foot rest. Ian was also nervous, tapping his fingers against his glass. At first, neither of them spoke. They looked around at the brick walls, the cone-shaped lamps and chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, the bright stage lights highlighting the appearance of only empty mic stands and curtain panels, the tarnished countertop, the array of bottles stacked up on shelves behind the bartenders.

“Sorry if I freaked you out with that e-mail,” Ian said, turning his head to look at Mickey. Mickey raised his eyebrows and put his beer down on the bar. He swallowed the swig he’d just taken and shrugged.

“Wasn’t freaked out,” he lied. Ian gave him a gentle smile.

“No? You just seemed a little tense at work the other day.”

“Tense?” Mickey asked. “Are you sure you didn’t just mistake that for annoyed?” Ian sat up further and rolled his shoulders.

“If you’re so annoyed by me, then why’d you agree to come out for a drink with me?” he asked with a smirk. Mickey felt himself blushing and put his head down, mumbling into his beer as he took another drink. Ian couldn’t hear what he’d said, but he laughed anyway. 

“Now that—that was fucking endearing,” Ian told the accountant, pointing at him. He looked around for the bartender, flagging her down. “We need something stronger, don’t you think?” he asked Mickey, who nodded and chugged down the rest of his beer. He ordered a bourbon, and Ian ordered a Jack and Coke. They kept talking as the drinks kept coming, and pretty soon they were both substantially tipsy. 

“So, just so we’re clear… You _are_ gay, right?” Ian asked as he finished off another drink. Mickey nearly spat bourbon back into his glass. He set the drink down, gulping and nodding, eyes flickering from his hands to Ian’s face. 

“Uhhh, yeah,” Mickey confirmed. “Yeah, I’m gay. Are you… gay… too?” Ian laughed and nodded. 

“Yeah, I am. Gay. We’re both gay. How about that?” He laughed again, and Mickey laughed too. Their laughter faded away and they both looked away from each other for a moment. 

“Are we… is this a date?” Mickey asked, looking back up at Ian, who let out another one of his loud laughs. Raising one eyebrow, he asked, “I dunno. Is it?” His eyes moved down to Mickey’s lips, then back up to his eyes. Mickey breathed out slowly and softly, running his hand down one thigh. His eyes traced the features of Ian’s face, and he let in a ragged breath, licking his lips. Ian leaned forward, putting his hand on Mickey’s knee, stroking it with his thumb. 

“Is this a date, Milkovich?” he asked, and Mickey felt his heart rate go up. He was melting under the influence of bourbon and a redheaded Special Agent who smelled like cologne and Jack Daniels.


	5. Old-Fashioned Morphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey stared at the money as he put his jacket on, pausing midway through putting his arm into one sleeve. He looked at Ian with his mouth slightly open. “D’you just pay for all our drinks?” he asked, licking his lips. Ian nodded, jutting his chin out just slightly. “Yeah,” he said with a slight slur in his voice. “Y’got a problem with that?” He smirked and Mickey felt an unfamiliar tingle in his stomach. He shook his head and finished putting on his jacket, walking past Gallagher. “No. Just means I get to pay for the cab ride,” he replied, giving a smirk of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, you guys! Writer's block is a bitch. I hope you enjoy!

“Is this a date, Milkovich?” he asked, and Mickey felt his heart rate go up. He was melting under the influence of bourbon and a redheaded Special Agent who smelled like cologne and Jack Daniels. Mickey’s tongue suddenly felt like lead, and he slowly nodded in response, looking into Gallagher’s fatally delicious green eyes. He could feel his pants tighten, a natural reaction to the sensory stimuli that spun around him. The warmth of bourbon running through his bloodstream. The bar’s appropriately soft lighting. The smooth and flirtatious tone of Ian’s voice. The gentle pressure of Ian’s hand on his knee. That glowing green gaze pointed directly at him. He nodded again, quicker this time, leaning in. 

“Yeah, this is a date,” he replied thickly, his voice filled with lust. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” was Ian’s next question. Mickey nodded a third time, and Gallagher’s hand slid up towards his thigh, squeezing lightly before lifting his hand to lay some bills down on the bar. Mickey stared at the money as he put his jacket on, pausing midway through putting his arm into one sleeve. He looked at Ian with his mouth slightly open.

“D’you just pay for all our drinks?” he asked, licking his lips. Ian nodded, jutting his chin out just slightly. 

“Yeah,” he said with a slight slur in his voice. “Y’got a problem with that?” He smirked and Mickey felt an unfamiliar tingle in his stomach. He shook his head and finished putting on his jacket, walking past Gallagher. 

“No. Just means I get to pay for the cab ride,” he replied, giving a smirk of his own. Gallagher followed him, chuckling.

“Oh, you do, huh?” he asked as he trailed Mickey through the club. They made their way outside and Mickey lit up a cigarette. Ian watched the smoke slowly exit the accountant’s mouth and nose in long, swirling plumes, swimming around his face in the night air. He felt his drunken lust growing, his dick doing the same thing. Mickey made a quick phone call to a local cab company and as he pocketed his cell phone, he turned back to Ian.

“We’re going to your place. Don’t wanna run into my sister,” he slurred, giving the redhead a lingering up-and-down stare, obviously checking him out. He tongued the side of his mouth and grinned. Ian nodded, running a hand through his hair. 

“Works for me.”

* * *

Mickey was staring down at Special Agent Gallagher’s _(really fuckin’ great)_ ass as the redhead slid his hotel keycard through the reader on the door. Having successfully unlocked it, Ian held the door open with one foot, grabbing a distracted Mickey by the collar and pulling him in. The door slammed shut, and Ian playfully shoved Mickey against a wall. The brunet let out a grunt and Ian shoved Mickey’s legs apart with one knee, pressing his body closer to the accountant’s. He planted his lips on Mickey’s, softly, until he felt Mickey kiss back. His lips moved— firm and welcoming, almost urgent. Another grunt escaped his throat and Ian slid his tongue along the other man’s lips. Mickey pushed his hips upwards, and Ian smirked against his mouth, chuckling. 

“Little eager there, Milkovich?” he teased. Mickey licked his lips and let out a breathy laugh.

“Says the guy who slammed me up against a wall before the door was even shut,” Mickey fired back. Ian snickered and pressed his hands into Mickey’s shoulders, pushing him back into the wall again.

“You complaining?” Ian asked.

“No.”

“Then shut the fuck up,” the agent growled, and he leaned forward, his lips crashing hard into Mickey’s. The accountant’s hands pawed at Ian’s sides and Ian responded by grabbing onto Mickey’s hips and pulling him further into the hotel room. They stumbled toward the bedroom, tongues dancing in and out of each others’ mouths, jackets and shirts being tugged off and tossed onto the floor. Ian palmed the front of Mickey’s pants, causing Mickey to raise his hips again. He let out a whimper that quickly turned into a growl as the redhead bit gently down onto his lower lip before pulling away. The backs of Mickey’s knees hit the bed and he flumped down onto the comforter. Ian tripped forward, laughing. He straddled Mickey and put one hand on the other man’s chest, pushing him onto the bed. 

Mickey landed on his back with a grunt and he laughed, trying to sit up again. Ian kept one hand on his chest, shaking his head. He giggled and crawled up the accountant’s body, eyes grazing over every detail. Looking to Mickey’s face again, he smirked and dove down to begin kissing his neck. Mickey squirmed and Ian rolled his hips downward, causing a groan to crawl up out of the brunet’s throat. The sound reverberated against Ian’s mouth as he sucked tenderly on Mickey’s flesh. Ian smirked and nipped at his collarbone, rolling his hips again.

“Oh, you are going _down_ , Army,” Mickey growled. Gallagher chuckled and made his way down Mickey’s torso, pausing to wrap his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue, satisfied with the yelp that forced its way out of the accountant’s mouth. Ian let go to drag his teeth down a section of Mickey’s ribs, who hissed and jumped slightly. Ian pushed his hips back down onto the bed and nodded.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he replied, looking up as he began undoing Mickey’s belt. Mickey watched as Ian expertly removed his pants, pulling them down to his ankles. He ran his palm over the tent in Mickey’s boxers, causing the brunet to let out a low moan. Ian gave Mickey’s hard-on a light squeeze and ran both of his hands up to pull Mickey’s boxers down off his waist. One hand went to work stroking Mickey’s cock as the other massaged the curved slope of his hipbone. Mickey dropped his head backwards and shut his eyes, reveling in the sensation. Gallagher sure knew how to use his goddamn hands. 

“When’s the last time you got tested?” Ian asked as he twisted his wrist just slightly, sending a shiver down Mickey’s spine. He let out a short whine and lifted his head to watch the action. 

“L-last month,” Mickey managed to sputter. Ian smiled and nodded in approval. He ran his thumb over the head of Mickey’s cock and watched as the accountant’s mouth fell open to let out a silent moan. 

“You clean?” Gallagher asked and Mickey nodded frantically. He panted as Ian continued to steadily pump his hand, moving to wrap his lips around the head of Mickey’s stiffened length. His tongue swirled and Mickey arched his back involuntarily, biting his lip.

“Ah, fuck!” he yelped and Ian pushed his hips down again, moving Mickey further into his mouth. He grabbed at Gallagher’s hair, twisting his fingers and tugging at the strands. The man had skills in the mouth department too and, _goddamn_ , it had been a few months since Mickey had been with anyone besides his own hand and, _motherfucker_ , bourbon made him horny and, _Jesus Christ_ , he might blow his load a little earlier than he wanted to if Gallagher kept going. 

“Stop, stop, s-stop, just--,” he muttered, lightly tapping the back of Ian’s head with one hand. “Hold your fucking horses, Gallagher.” Ian looked up, licking his bottom lip hungrily. The ache in Mickey’s abdomen worsened at the sight, so he shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep it together. 

“What? What is it?” Ian asked, gently massaging the brunet’s hipbone. _Jesus, that feels good_ , Mickey thought, the statement coming into his mind like a flash of lightning, then disappearing just as quickly. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

“If we’re talking full-on penetration here, I don’t want to lose my shit just yet, so uh… yeah, blowjob needs to stop,” he slurred. Ian raised one eyebrow, amused. His fingers stopped moving against Mickey’s hip. 

“Who would be penetrating who?” he asked and Mickey scoffed.

“If what I felt during the dry humping we were doing earlier is an accurate indication of the heat you’re packing…” he trailed off, tipping his head towards Ian’s crotch. The redhead grinned and stood up, pulling down his own boxers to slowly stroke himself, showing off. Mickey’s eyes landed on the package and he exhaled sharply. He licked his lips and nodded. 

“Yeah, I ain’t lettin’ that go to waste,” he said, tearing his eyes away to look into Gallagher’s green stare. Ian let out a low chuckle and took his underwear off, tossing them to the side. He kneeled down again, removing Mickey’s pants and placing his hands on the accountant’s thighs, spreading them apart. 

“You got lube?” Gallagher asked, stroking the inside of Mickey’s thighs. Mickey shook his head. 

“Don’t usually carry it around with me. Don’t you have any?” he replied. Ian also shook his head, the movement of his fingers slowing to a stop. 

“I wasn’t exactly planning on getting laid while I was here,” he admitted. Mickey groaned and covered his face with his hands. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” 

Ian took his hands off of the other man’s thighs and sighed dejectedly. He pouted and ran one hand through his hair. 

“ _So_ not spending money on a cab to go buy lube…” he muttered. Mickey sat up and sighed as well. 

“Neither of us can drive… or walk in a straight line,” he added, and Ian laughed, nodding in agreement. Mickey threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. 

“Fuck it,” he said, leaning on his elbows again. “Finish sucking me off and I’ll return the fuckin’ favor or whatever.” Ian grinned and nodded, resuming the previously-interrupted blowjob. Mickey tipped his head backwards and let out a low moan, shutting his eyes and letting a smile flicker onto his face.

* * *

The special agent and the accountant passed out next to each other that night on the hotel bed, stark naked. They had both enjoyed a smoke and a laugh, and then promptly fell asleep in a post-orgasmic bliss. Mickey woke up around 5 AM, the beginning of a headache drilling at his temples. He rubbed his eyes for a moment before recognizing the heat of another human being lying beside him. He turned his head and took in the sight of Gallagher’s naked form. He recalled those large hands running over his skin and pushing him down into the bed. Those legs twitching happily as he sucked that cock, _nine fucking inches_ , of hot, solid cock. That mouth, sucking on Mickey’s own dick, and that tongue finding all the right places. Those eyelashes, brushing gently against his face as they kissed… okay, Mickey _really_ needed to go. He quickly got dressed, scrawled a note to Gallagher, and left the hotel, walking to the nearest L station.

* * *

Mickey woke up again around noon, in his own bed this time, to the sound of laughter. He lifted his head, wiping the sleep out of his eyes, or at least trying to, and groaned. He had taken something for his headache when he got home that night, downing two giant glasses of water, but still the hangover lingered.

“What the fuck?” he said under his breath, standing and going for his bedroom door. He barreled down the hallway into the living room, cursing loudly at Mandy, and stopped dead when he saw that his sister wasn’t the only one laughing. Dressed in her usual gym attire, hair in a ponytail, Mandy was leaning on the back of the couch. Standing beside her was another woman in gym clothes, her hands on her hips, smiling in the middle of a laugh. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Mickey asked through a veil of annoyed sleepiness. Mandy reached over to smack his arm, frowning.

“Mickey, rude!” she snapped at him, and the other woman laughed. She was a little bit smaller than Mandy, with short dark brown hair cut at an angle, taut muscles under tawny beige skin, and sharp hazel eyes. She stepped closer to Mickey, sticking her hand out.

“My name is Camila Mendoza. I’m a kickboxing instructor, and today I had the pleasure of working with your sister for the first time. And you’re Mickey, Mandy’s brother. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, and Mickey shook her hand, yawning. 

“Okay, cool, Mandy’s got friends now,” he replied, and Mandy glared at him. “Yeah, I’m Mickey, good to meet you, blah blah blah. Look, I have a fuckin’ hangover and I’d really fucking appreciate it if you two kept the high-pitched giggling to a minimum, thanks.” 

Cami stared at Mickey, eyebrows raised, and after a moment of silence, she laughed again, patting him on the shoulder. Mandy smiled from her spot in the room, and Cami turned to her, remarking, “You’re right, he is just like you said!” Mickey’s eyes widened and he went from staring at the place where Cami had just touched his arm to staring at his sister, crossing his arms defensively. 

“What’d you say I was like?” he asked, furrowing his brow. Mandy smirked at him, but her eyes kept flickering back to Cami.

“Oh, nothing, nothing, forget it,” she said, waving her brother’s question away with one hand. “You’re the one who came home at 5 in the morning, and without even a phone call!” Mandy reached over and punched his shoulder. Mickey rubbed his arm, glaring at her. 

“I was out, got a problem with that?” he snapped.

“’Out’? Did you hook up with somebody?!” Mandy gasped. Mickey scoffed and headed back down the hallway to his bedroom, muttering, “I’m going the fuck back to bed.”

“Well did you?!” Mandy called, and Mickey flipped her off from over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. He slammed his bedroom door just as Mandy shouted, “Was it the Army guy?!”

* * *

Ian woke up some time during the early afternoon, eyes stinging and head pounding. He groaned, rolling over onto his side and slowly sitting up, shifting to the edge of the bed. He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the ache that sat stubbornly in his temples. The events of the following night replayed in his head, and he smirked at the memory of Mickey on top of him. He looked over to where he remembered the brunet being last, passed out on the bed, but the accountant wasn’t there. Ian frowned and stood slowly, pulling on his boxers and ambling into the bathroom. No Mickey there. A piece of hotel stationery with scratchy handwriting sat perched in between the hot and cold knobs on the sink. Ian picked it up and read:

******_Gallagher—  
Went home. DO NOT speak of this at work. This stays between us.  
M._**

Ian frowned at the note, eyebrows knit together. There could have been a few reasons as to why Mickey wanted to keep their hook up secret. It might have been against work protocol, or maybe Mickey wasn’t out about his sexuality at his job, or maybe he liked his private life private. Ian could agree to keeping his mouth shut, whatever the reason was, that was no big deal. The only thing that bothered him about the whole thing was that Ian wanted _more_. The thing that had kept him drunk all night wasn’t alcohol—it was Mickey, and he felt like there might not be any way that he could get enough.


End file.
